Your humble narrator returns from a long weekend in Torquay, where - with hardly a Spanish waiter gag to be had - he witnessed the following exchange in a classy eaterie..."Waiter! Garçon!"
"Good moaning M'sieur," said the snivelling crapaud, every sinew of his body aching for revenge over the humiliation of Agincourt, "I trust everyzing is fine with your desserts?"
"No. No, everyzing ...err... everything is not fine..."
"Oh M'sieur! I am so sorry to 'ear that."
"...In fact, I've got a good mind to ask for a refund."
"A refund? What seems to be ze problem? Chef will be very upset. 'E is a very sensitive man, y'know. 'E aims for ...'ow you say... perfection."
"It's the Death by Chocolate the wife's mother ordered."
"Ah! Ze Death by Chocolate! We don't just defrost it out of ze packet for you steak-an'-chips Rosbifs, don't you know. What, sir, is ze problem?"
The irate customer pulled himself up to his full five feet and six inches, the light reflecting off his balding pate, before declaring in his bravest voice: "It is, my good man, false advertising."
"False advertising?!" he exclaims as a brutal-looking matelot in a chef's hat appears by his side, brandishing a cleaver. "False advertising? 'Ow so?"
"It said Death By Chocolate on your frighteningly expensive menu, and as you can see, the old dragon's still alive."
He relaxes, and Bluto retires to the kitchen with the faintest trace of a smile across his scarred Gallic face.
"Patience, M'sieur, patience. Zese things take time."
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